


The Letter (various versions)

by koalathebear



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3061448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalathebear/pseuds/koalathebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various takes by me on Quinn's letter - and the lead-up and aftermath.</p><p>Note - this isn't a story with sequential chapters as such.  Each chapter's just a different take/guess of circumstances relating to the letter.  If any of these 'prompts' strikes your fancy, please feel free to go nuts and write a full fic/story based on it ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angsty version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had to be done. The moment the letter is delivered to Carrie.

Carrie looks down at the letter the man she doesn't recognise holds in his hand and then back up at his face which holds the same calm, deliberate expression of nothingness that she does recognise. His hair is dark, his beard is closely trimmed and his eyes … well they've already told her what she is refusing to accept.

"Why is my name on this letter?" she demands of him angrily. "This is Quinn's handwriting." 

She knows exactly what it means and the anger grows within her as well as another emotion that is even more terrifying. "Who are you here? _Leave!_ " she tells him fiercely.

"Carrie – it's not his fault," Dar Adal told her calmly. "It's standard practice that these letters are delivered… I offered to deliver this one myself but Rob insisted on delivering it."

"It's a promise we make to each other sir," Rob tells him and Dar Adal acknowledges his words with a respectful nod.

Tears were brimming in Carrie's eyes as her lip quivered. Breathing was almost impossible and she gave a loud, unlovely sob of denial. "No," she says quietly. "No, no, _no!_ " she repeats emphatically, getting louder and more hysterical. "This isn't possible, he always comes back. He's like a cat with nine lives," she tells Rob. Rob flinches. He forces himself to smile.

"That he was ma'am. It was very much a joke on the team that Quinn always landed on his feet," Rob tells her gravely, with genuine fondness and regret in his voice.

"The fuck, the fuck …" Carrie mutters to herself in disbelief, rocking herself back and forth. "Tell me what happened," she orders, dragging a hand across her eyes before taking a deep shuddering breath.

Rob glances over at Dar Adal who nods at him to proceed.

"We located the targets in Syria, ma'am. They were … dealt with in accordance with the mission objective. We didn't know that there was going to be a third with them - Faysal Ahmad."

Carrie's eyes widened. "Deputy commander, Khost province – he was the overseer of the heroin networks of southeast Afghanistan and one of the prisoners released to Haqqani as part of the exchange for Saul," Carrie whispers.

"Yeah. Quinn got the same look in his eyes that you have now when he found out. Let's just say that Ahmad was … cooperative and that's when we found out that Haqqani himself was in Syria."

"Holy shit," Carrie whispers. "What happened then?" she demands with a hiss.

"We couldn't stop him – he was determined to go after Haqqani himself – he said it was payback for the embassy killings in Islamabad … kept talking about someone named Fara."

Carrie flinches. Rob stares at her worried. Carrie is on the verge of hyperventilating, her eyes bulging out, her pale skin blotched with redness as she barely holds it together.

"And then?"

"It was a crazy mission … completely not on script … impossible… so he insisted on doing it alone. He took out Haqqani but he did not survive, ma'am," Rob told her gently.

"You are wrong," she hisses at him. "You don't know him like I do. He would have found a way – he …"

"Ma'am, he was right next to the explosive device when it went off. There is no way he could have survived, I'm very sorry for your loss."

Carrie was so blinded by tears, she did not even notice when Rob and Dar Adal left. 

With hands that were not quite steady, she walked up to her room, opened the safe, put the letter inside and closed the safe again.

Years later, Franny Mathison goes through her mother's belongings with eyes that are red and swollen, hands that are not quite steady. When she opens the safe, she stares in curiosity at the yellowed paper of the unopened envelope. Sitting down, she turns the letter over in her hands before opening it and learning about a side of Carrie Mathison she never knew existed. 


	2. The Text

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the actual text of of the letter. Kind of inspired by this poem... but not entirely. Unlike the cavalier in Lovelace's poem, it's not that he loves honour more than Carrie, it's just that he feels like he must go.
> 
>  **To Lucasta, going to the Wars** , Richard Lovelace. 1618–1658  
> TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,  
> That from the nunnery  
> Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind  
> To war and arms I fly. 
> 
> True, a new mistress now I chase,  
> The first foe in the field;  
> And with a stronger faith embrace  
> A sword, a horse, a shield. 
> 
> Yet this inconstancy is such  
> As thou too shalt adore;  
> I could not love thee, Dear, so much,  
> Loved I not Honour more.

Carrie

If you're reading this letter – then it means I'm finally out. Not the way I'd hoped – but I'm out.

I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk before I shipped out – it wasn't a conversation we could have had over the phone. 

I thought about not going – but staying behind just wasn't an option once the true significance of the mission was made clear to me. 

I worked with all of the people who died at the Islamabad station – they were my colleagues and some of them were almost friends. I owe them this. I owe Fara this. I'll never be able to make up for the fact that I didn't do more for them in Islamabad – but I can do this for them and maybe – just maybe, it will be able to go some small way towards making up for all of the other shit that I've done in my life.

I have regrets - too many to tell you about in this letter. Things I wish I could have told you or explained. It was always hard for me to ever imagine a different life, but whenever I allowed myself to think about the possibility of a happy future – you were part of that life.

I'm not sure if you remember the day we first met. I told you that I liked your work – I meant it. As infuriating as you can be, you have passion and so much heart. You have my admiration, respect and love – you've had those for a very long time now.

Get out while you can Carrie. You deserve the happiest of lives – as does Franny. 

Your friend

Quinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also think of [Sullivan Ballou's letter to his wife Sarah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DNfBdzpG6L4).


	3. Drabble: It ends in Syria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lead up to the letter. Drabble. Exactly 100 words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ This is the music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QvEQ8pw84mg) that goes with this fic.

Quinn's always known that this is how it would end - far away from home.

He stares up at the stars scattered thickly across the blackness of a foreign sky. The pain is almost gone.

"Quinn you fucker – look at me. Damn you – hang on," Rob mutters desperately, almost angrily as he works furiously to staunch the bleeding.

Quinn knows there's no point. He's seen enough injuries to know that there's no coming back from this mission.

"Make sure you give Carrie the letter."

"Stay with me you asshole..."

Quinn closes his eyes and thinks of Carrie. He's finally out.


	4. A Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scenario regarding events after the delivery of the letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've [referenced a conversation on Brody's star in a chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1089542/chapters/2302335) from my season 3 fic [Fragments](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1089542) simply because I didn't feel like writing it again and I think the conversation still fits.

Carrie stands at the Memorial Wall staring at the stars carved into the white Alabama marble wall. Paramilitary officers of the CIA's Special Activities Division comprise the majority of those memorialised. The latest star on the Wall belongs to an unnamed officer who died in the line of service in Aleppo, Syria. He's one of the unnamed stars … secret even in death to the world.

Not to Carrie though. She stares fixedly at the star of Peter Quinn. She'll never know what his real name was. It doesn't really matter – she knew the man himself and he knew her.

She thinks back to a conversation after Brody's death about Lockhart's refusal to give Brody a star – unsurprisingly, the unofficial star drawn by her onto the Wall was erased long ago.

She can almost hear Quinn's voice in her head now. _It's just more bullshit they do to make themselves better about the shit they do... A true memorial is leaving behind a legacy of having done the right thing ... of being remembered by people who matter._

 _… it's a symbol ... but it's recognition that a person was a part of this place ... of something bigger ... that we mattered,_ she had protested at the time.

Quinn would be very unimpressed and unflattered by his star. Nonetheless, Carrie reaches out and touches the star with a fingertip before pressing her unpainted mouth lightly to the wall. If Quinn was here, no doubt there would be a sardonic look and even a comment about her uncharacteristically sentimental actions.

_What the fuck's that all about, Carrie? You don't need a star on the wall to matter._

She sighs, eyes blinded with tears that she still refuses to shed. She turns and staggers out of the building into the sunlight. As she turns to walk towards the building where she will have her exit interview, she turns her head slightly and as the sun blinds her, she could swear that she can see Quinn standing in the car park, waiting for her with an approving smile on her face.

 _I'm getting out …_. The tears are stinging her eyes.

 _About goddamned time Carrie – make sure you tell Byatt fuck you for me…_. 

She smiles to herself, adjusts her shoulder bag and walks to the exit interview with added purpose.


	5. The Letter (the Conspiracy Remix)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a very serious version of the letter and post-letter events, but I felt as though I owed it to the poor people who were a bit traumatised by one of the other remixes of the letter … Sorry about the angsty versions, guys ...

Weeks pass after Carrie learns of Quinn's death during the mission in Syria and there's really no word to describe her behaviour except that she is wallowing.

Maggie tries to help but Carrie's not interested in interacting, choosing instead to shut herself off with only Franny for company. "I'm fine Maggie – I'm on my meds, this isn't me being unwell."

"Grief can make your condition worse."

"I'm aware of that," she tells her sister. 

She's also aware that her mind is clear – she needs time to think.

*

There's a knock on her door and she's startled to find Max standing there, staring at her.

"You look terrible," he remarks, staring at her sunken eyes, red and swollen, her stringy hair that's a little bit greasy from infrequent washing. She also looks thin and tired.

"Well hello to you, too," she retorts and walks into the house, leaving the door open. He follows her inside and closes the door behind him.

"How are you holding up?" he asks her.

"Probably about the same as you," she suggests and he nods.

"So pretty bad." They haven't seen each other since Fara's funeral. He hadn't come to Quinn's service because there hadn't been one aside from the conferring of the star at Langley.

"What can I do for you?" she asks him curiously, watching as he makes an awkward attempt to engage with Franny. He clearly doesn't play with children much because he seems absolutely bemused by Franny's unblinking gaze.

"You need to open the letter," he tells her and she freezes.

"The fuck," she exclaims violently, staring at him in disbelief. "How do you know about the letter? And what fucking business is it of yours?"

"Don't shoot the messenger," he tells her mildly. "Just open it," he tells her and leaves the house, leaving Carrie staring after him with a moment's shock before she runs out of the kitchen and takes the stairs two at a time, diving into her cupboard to look for the letter.

Ripping it open, her face frantic she stared down at the page that contained nothing more on it than two poems. One by Walt Whitman and one by W.B. Yeats.

"What the fuck, Quinn ..."

*

_Somwhere on the South Coast, New South Wales, Australia_

Carrie stands in the doorway of the hotel looking around in perplexity. It's the middle of the day and there are a few hard core drinkers at the pub off to the side and there are two youths in extremely casual beach ware at the pool table playing pool.

"Need a room, love?" a voice calls out to her and she walks up to the reception desk of the hotel which is more of a pub with rooms, to be honest. Like hers, the woman behind the desk's face is flushed and damp with the heat.

"Yes," Carrie tells her.

"How many nights?"

"I … I don't know," Carrie answers and the woman shakes her head. 

"It's tourist season, darl', if you don't book you won't get a room." The woman has such a broad Australian accent it's almost unintelligible.

"Two nights," Carrie mutters. She fills in the check-in form. Caroline Macmillan she uses this time, mouth twisting slightly. She finds it hard to believe that this place would fill up even during the high season but there are a lot of cars in the car parks near the beach and the small shopping centre does seem to have a lot of tourists wandering around.

"If you're hungry, the bar's still taking orders – I think there's spag bol on the menu if you want … there might be a soup for the little miss."

"Right," Carrie replies a little uncertainly. It had been a long flight over and she was desperately tired … but Franny needs something to eat and soup sounds like it might fit the bill.

"I'm Deb," the woman introduces herself. "Shaun-o will take your bags up to your room if you want, love," the woman tells her kindly and Carrie nods.

"Thank you," she tells the grinning youth with the sun-streaked hair and bare feet.

"She's a bit of all right," she hears him say to the woman behind the counter and she shakes her head and carrying Franny, walks into the pub area of the hotel and sits down at the counter. She looks around for a high chair for Franny.

"There's one over here, darl' – although normally no kids are allowed in here. I'll make an exception this time for her though," a man's voice tells her from behind the bar. It's a voice both familiar and strange … strange in its Australian drawl but the timbre is extremely familiar …

He comes out from behind the bar and Carrie's eyes widen as she stares at the man standing in front of her. He's tall, tanned and his brown hair is falling over his brow in a casual manner. Her breath caught in her throat. He is smiling at her tenderly.

"Quinn O'Connell," he tells her, extending his hand.

After a moment's hesitation she shakes his hand. "Caroline Macmillan," she whispers, staring up into his face disbelievingly. He takes Franny from her arms and smiles down at her.

"Hey Franny – remember me?" he asks her. Franny chuckles and grabs at his hair with one chubby hand as he laughs and then puts her in the high chair before turning back to Carrie.

His light grey eyes rest on her face, taking in every detail. "I was beginning to think you'd never come," he tells her in his own voice, all traces of the Australian accent gone.

"You asshole … they told me you were dead …" she whispers.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he asks her steadily, stepping towards her as she steps towards him.

"Forgive you for making me think you were dead … no clues except two fucking poems …the fuck, Quinn!"

"Hey Max was there to help out. How was I to know you'd go into full denial and refuse to even look at the letter," he points out reasonably.

"I thought you were dead," she whispers again. She doesn't seem angry, which is encouraging.

"I can explain …"

"You're going to need to do a lot of grovelling," she tells him.

"I can do that."

"And the sex better be fucking amazing."

"That I can guarantee."

When Deb walks past the bar, her eyes widen in shock and then she shakes her head. "American women," she mutters under her breath. Those bloody American women coming here and dazzling the local menfolk with their ways.

*

Franny O'Connell grows up by the beach. She gets used to being called Blue because of her hair. 

Her dad, Quinn is well-liked in town, running the town's main pub while his American wife Caroline teaches at the local high school. Franny grows up with an Aussie accent and a loving home-life. She works at the pub even before she's 15 and learns to mix drinks and make conversation even though she never really develops a taste for booze.

As a child when she asked why Aunt Maggie always visits them and they never visit her, Quinn had replied,"Don't really like Americans except your mum and Auntie Maggie." 

Caroline smiles as she and Quinn take their daily walk along the beach in the evening. The wind blows through her hair, whipping it around in the breeze. Quinn's dark hair is tousled, the glints of grey giving him a distinguished air. When she teases him about his greys he shrugs. "I never knew I'd have the chance to grow old," he tells her,"So I'm actually kind of happy to see these guys."

When he holds out his hand, she willingly goes into his arms and he holds her against him as they stand with the sand beneath their feet and last rays of sun warming their skin.

This is their life now. This is who they are and there are no regrets about the lives they have left behind.


End file.
